


What Actors Do

by zarabithia



Category: Actor RPF, Call Me By Your Name RPF
Genre: M/M, Rope Bondage, pining with happy ending
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-15
Updated: 2017-10-15
Packaged: 2019-01-17 15:09:07
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,000
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12368367
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/zarabithia/pseuds/zarabithia
Summary: It is supposed to be a secret, something shared between co-stars during filming and forgotten.





	What Actors Do

It is supposed to be a secret, something shared between co-stars during filming and forgotten. The harsh truth that co-stars had flings that mattered only while the camera was rolling was something that had been whispered during school and told in firm not-quite-whispers over the phone by a sister who had taken one look at Armie Hammer's picture, sighed, and felt the urge to educate her brother about "how actors work." 

His sister might think otherwise, but Timothée was not naive. And for the first week after Armie burst in on Timothée's piano lesson, it wasn't even difficult to think of this as anything but a casual fling he'd look back on later. 

"Sometimes actors forget themselves," his sister had warned him. "Don't lose yourself so much that you become Elio entirely." 

_Don't get hung up on some guy who has a wife and kids_ , she didn't say. Timothée likes to think that she didn't need to say it, because he was smarter than that. Besides, he meets Elizabeth shortly after he meets Armie and she's amazing. He's definitely not going to fall in love with his co-star, just because he's cute. 

And for about a week, that was true. Maybe a little longer than a week. He isn't sure, really, when the lines started to blur, or why; maybe it happened because of they hung out too much or because Armie missed his wife, or because Timothée was sad, pathetic and lonely.

He tells the latter theory to his sister, who scolds him on the phone for putting himself down. "It's normal," she tells him firmly. "It's what actors do. Just remember it doesn't mean anything. Protect your heart, Timothée." 

He tries. He really does. 

~

"It's how people danced in the 80s," Armie tells Timothée after they conclude filming for a scene that Timothée is sure will keep him laughing for days. Armie is standing next to him, while Timothée relaxes in a chair that Elio watches Oliver from, and Timothée squashes down any similar feelings of longing that might make him identify with his character a bit too much. 

"I wouldn't know," Timothée tells him. "I wasn't born until after that decade was over, and if you're telling the truth about that dancing style, I'm really glad." 

"If I'm telling the truth?" Armie towers over him on the best of days, even when they are both standing, but with Timothée sitting in front of him, he seems inhumanely tall and out of reach. His shirt is unbuttoned, and there's a thick layer of sweat drenching his skin and turning the hair there a darker shade of brown. 

Timothée wishes there was another scene to film to give him a reason to run his fingers through over that skin and through that filthy chest-hair. Pauline, internally, scolds him for being so foolish. 

Timothée realizes he's been staring at Armie's chest when Armie's huge foot nudges his own. 

"Sorry," he says automatically and he can feel a flush spread over his cheeks. There's a huge, smug grin all over the man's face and Timothée wonders if he can make a career out of co-staring with ugly actors from now on. 

"As I was saying," Armie continues, "You think I would lie to you, Timmy?" 

Timothée's gut twists with a horrid combination of want and the special kind of pain that comes from that want being unrequited. "I hope you would. I'd hate to think that the entire country really did have a mass attack of dancing that terrible for a whole decade." 

Armie scoffs and takes Timothée's water bottle without asking, and proceeds to take a long drink. "I was there for the 90s, too, you know. I wouldn't say it got better." 

Timothée watches the way Armie's throat moves when he swallows and when he talks. He watches the way those impossibly large hands wrap around a bottle far too small for them. He hopes they have to make out again tomorrow.

"I'm insulted that you think my dancing was bad," Timothée tells him. "We had Justin Timberlake. You guys had ... like, The Flock of Seagulls." 

Armie makes a face, and they both ignore that at the end of the 80s, Armie was 4 years old, and at the end of the 90s, Timothée wasn't any older. 

"We had Madonna," Armie counters, "But then, so did you, didn't you?"

Timothée knows what that's in reference to, and he is used to answering questions about having dated the daughter of Madonna. But this time, the quick answer dies on his tongue as Armie reaches for his hand. 

"Come on, Timmy, it's late, and there's wine to finish off before bedtime." 

Armie's hand engulfs Timothée's, and all Timothée follows willingly, because there's nothing else he'd rather do.  
~ 

His sister listens to him talk on the phone and while he listens to her, he watches Armie talking to his wife. His head's tilted back, resting on the couch, and those impossibly long legs are spread open, an invitation that Timothée can't take. 

His throat goes dry, and his sister sighs at him over the phone. 

"Angelina and Brad didn't make it, you know," she says, and her tone is the kind of warning he doesn't really appreciate. 

He scowls at the phone. "I suppose not, but they were happy for a long time." 

"How do you know?" 

"How do you know they weren't?" 

She sighs. "My poor little Timothée, brain turned to mush over a pretty blonde. Does he return it, then?"

"He's straight," Timothée answers, because he's never considered any other possibility. 

~ 

They've just completed a scene in which Oliver has to wipe come off Elio's chest, and Timothée frankly doesn't know how to hide the fact that he's hard. In his head, he tries to think about his sister, who once told him that all male actors were a horny and desperate lot, who couldn't control their little brains in any scene with even a "hint of sexuality." 

It isn't working, though, because the camera crew and Luca have given him privacy, but Armie has not. 

"So who is straight?" Armie asks, and mercifully, he asks it quietly. 

"... What?" 

"Yesterday, when you were talking to your sister," Armie clarifies. "You said someone was straight, which makes me wonder who you were talking about." 

"Eavesdropping? Rude," Timothée says, though part of him is pleased. He's pleased because he hadn't considered that he might be special enough for Armie to want to eavesdrop on his conversations. 

"You don't listen when I'm talking to Elizabeth?" Armie challenges, and Timothée wonders how obvious he has been. 

"Hey, it's not my fault you want everyone in Crema to hear your conversations about your rope fetish," Timothée challenges. 

"We were quiet," Armie argues. Then he cast a long smile towards Timothée. "Maybe you just wanted to hear about my skill with the rope, Timmy. You'd probably like it more than Elizabeth does anyway." 

"No - " 

"You didn't have to eavesdrop. I would have told you." The smile is warm, inviting, and it doesn't help with Timothée's hard-on at all. 

"Well, I'll try to remember that the next time I have a question about your bondage fantasies," Timothée says, and he means it to be a "fuck off," but Armie's gaze lingers on Timothée's crotch, and it doesn't work as a "fuck off" at all.

"You do that," Armie suggests. "But in the meantime, who's straight?" 

Timothée rolls his eyes. He could say himself, but he's never been much into that sort of lie. "I was talking about you." 

"Mm." 

It's all Armie says, before he mercifully leaves Timothée and his hard-on in peace. That one short syllable from ARmie is all Timothée thinks about for the rest of the day.

~

Two nights later, they're alone, in front of a television that's turned off, and Armie's fingers are tracing through Timothée's hair. Armie had suggested a "rehearsal," but this doesn't feel like one, mostly because Armie's on his second glass of wine and his fingers are running through Timothée's hair with a much greater determination than Oliver demonstrates in this particular scene. 

Timothée thinks he should care, but he only responds by easing more of his head onto Armie's lap and being envious of the wine as it spills into Armie's throat. 

Eventually, Armie speaks, and when he does, it's to tell of a childhood spent "wrapped in love," but conditionally so. Timothée has already had time to form a terrible opinion of Armie's parents, the ones who "more or less" disowned their child for choosing his own career path, and he hates them a little more than Armie would approve of. 

"You're not my first boy kiss," Armie tells him abruptly, and it feels like a confession, before he tells Timothée "I kissed Leo, you know." 

"Yes, I know." Timothée doesn't hide his laugh, but he adds, "You aren't my first boy kiss, either."

Armie looks down at him and for a moment, his fingers still in Timothée's hair. "You don't mean for film, though." 

"No." 

It's simple, and they are beyond the point where Timothée thinks Armie will care about the answer, but his breath catches anyway, when it takes Armie too long to answer him back. Armie reaches for the wine, and Timothée's fingers brush against his when he fumbles the exchange. A small spot of wine spills onto Armie's shirt and he ignores it in favor of taking a drink. 

When he speaks again, the bottle is being held hostage by those impossibly large hands. "It isn't fair," Armie finally says, and Timothée is about to agree, when Armie continues. "It isn't fair that I get to know what your kisses feel like, but all the other... intimacies... I have to pretend."

"You don't," Timothée mutters, and he doesn't mean it to sound so angry. 

But Armie doesn't mind, apparently. There's a noisy clatter as he sets the wine bottle onto the coffee table, and then Armie's fingers are curling tightly into Timothée's hair. 

"I want to feel all of you," Armie says, and it would feel like a confession, except that it is as direct as everything else he ever says. 

Its brutal honesty makes Timothée want to help him out of his awkwardness. "You going to tie me up? You already got the hair pulling down so far." 

Armie laughs with his whole body, like he doesn't believe Timothée is serious - like he doesn't know that Timothée would let him. It's as if he doesn't know that Timothée would let him do so many things, and so many more things than he'd ever allow anyone else. 

"You think that's hair pulling? You haven't felt anything yet." 

"Promise?" 

Armie's lips are still curved into a smile when his hands reach for Timothée's belt. 

~ 

"You start fucking on the set, they start acting different," Timothée's sister tells him, and he believes her... but it doesn't happen. Not with Armie. He's still profesional, kind, funny, and ... appropriate on set. 

But his behavior once Luca releases them for the night changes drastically, and Timothée has never been so happy to hear a door shut as he does when Armie closes it behind him at night. Armie does not give him time to so much as breathe before Timothée feels like he is being devoured; Amie's mouth and hands consume him, tearing and pulling and jerking impatiently at any clothing in the way. 

Timothée does not offer to help, unless his whispered, "Hurry, hurry, hurry" serves as any help at all. Instead, he allows... no, he asks Armie to undress him, to set the stage and direct the scene, until Timothée is splayed out beneathe him, ready to be devoured and consumed at Armie's leisure, and more than ready to return the favor. 

This time, they have made it to a bed - a rare, special occasion. Not that they aren't all special occasions, whether on the floor, in the shower, or up against a wall. But this - this bed has a level of permanence that Timothée doesn't dare voice his wish for; instead, he gives an impatient whimper as Armie takes too long to spread lube on that ridiculous size dick. 

"Impatient, Timmy?" Armie laughs at him as his hands reach for Timothée's legs. Timothée helps him, impatiently, the need for him to be inside Timothée already strong; Timothée's come twice already tonight and both times, Armie has teased and promised that tonight will finally be the night Armie will get inside of him. Blowjobs are wonderful; Armie's hand are amazing. But Timothée has wanted that dick inside of him since the first day he fondled Armie through a frustrating pair of shorts. 

Timothée wriggles against him without shame, until a leg is thrown over each of Armie's shoulders. Armie's grin is quick, expected, and a delightful reminder that this isn't a moment stolen between Oliver and Elio. Armie is free here, much more free than Oliver ever allows himself to be. There's been no hint of regret, no lingering confusion; Armie has left behind his conservative upbringing in a way that Oliver never fully will.

But Timothée is not as naive as Elio. He knows this will end. But he doesn't want to think of it right now. 

"You're going to make me hold you down if you keep wriggling like that," Armie scolds, but he's pressing his dick against Timothée's hole and there's not a shred of disapproval on his face. 

It's too full of want, and Timothée moves again, trying to get Armie to move. A hand presses down on his left hip, and it's all Armie can spare, because he needs the other hand to help guide himself into Timothée. But it's enough that Timothée can't move, not really, and it's enough that Timothée knows there will be bruises on his hip tomorrow. 

He can't wait to see them. 

~ 

"What will you do when it's time to go, Timothée?" his sister asks him, and he does not have an answer, so she asks him repeatedly, every day, for a week.

Timothée thinks about his sister's question on their last night together, while he waits for Armie to untie his wrists. The rope has cut deeply into his skin, in the same way that has made the make-up artist say _nothing_ as loudly as possible for the past two weeks. 

It burns, and sitting on his knees, with his ass up in the air while Armie ties him is not the most comfortable position - nor is it particularly comfortable lying on his side while Armie unties him. But the feeling of the rope digging into his skin, while Armie's massive hands slide around his throat from behind ... that is more than comfortable. The sting of the rope as his arms jerked in time to Armie's thrusts ... Timothée's never felt anything like it, and he knows he won't again. 

He won't, because tomorrow, they will go their separate ways. 

The rope loosens suddenly, and his wrists are free. Timothée doesn't move though, because after inspecting his wrists for damage, Armie slides up against him and wraps his arms around Timothée from behind. 

Timothée will miss the friction and the sex, but he will miss this holding that Armie craves - and has made Timothée crave - even more. 

"You're quiet," Armie says.

"I'm tired," Timothée says and they both know it's a lie. 

"We should get some sleep. Long day tomorrow." 

"Mm. Plane sleep is the worst sleep." 

"That it is, Timmy. That's why I, personally, take pictures of my naked feet during flights and post them to instagram." 

"That seems... really kinky." 

"Are you implying that people are using my feet to jerk off to? I'm scandalized, Timmy." 

Timothée laughs, and here in the dark, for just a moment, everything is normal again, and the world they've so carefully built isn't ending tomorrow. 

~

It's supposed to be a secret, something they shared in Crema and left behind.

Months of conversation don't change that fact; they don't discuss it over the phone, nor do they discuss it when Timothée comes out to Armie's house and visits his family. 

But Crema gets revisited again, eventually, and Armie says, for all of the world to hear: "I fell in love with Timmy while making this film." And again, when he calls making the film his "big summer romance." 

Timothée waits until after the interviews in New York, when they arrive at his apartment. Timothée has stayed at Armie's home; there's no reason Armie shouldn't stay at his. But he watches as Armie shuts the door, and he remembers the desperation and hunger they'd shared in Italy. 

"I missed you," he says, impulsively. 

Armie stops glancing around the apartment and looks at Timothée instead. "Me too, Timmy." 

"I don't want - " Timothée pauses to consider what he wants to say, but the words come rushing out, because after discussing Oliver and Elio all day, there's really only one thing he wants to say. "I don't want to wait twenty years." 

"In twenty years, I'll still have this movie in my heart, just like I told them I would," Armie says, and Timothée wonders if that's a rejection. But Armie hasn't turned to leave, and is in fact, bridging the distance between them. "But I'm pretty greedy, so I'd like to have you _and_ the movie." 

"In twenty years, I won't be quite so cute," Timothée tells him. "I'll probably dance terribly, like certain old people I know." 

"You'll probably have a hot young co-star who makes fun of your perfectly legitimate dance moves," Armie corrects him, before cupping Timothée's chin with his hands. "But you won't want them. You know why? Because you'll still have me." 

"Promise?" 

Just as they had been in every memory Timothée holds of their time in Crema, Armie's lips are curved into a smile as he reaches for Timothée's belt. 

It may still be a secret, but that does not mean it has to be forgotten. 

~


End file.
